The Fire of Time
by ClarityOfThought
Summary: When Harry Potter’s Horcrux-hunting mission goes horribly wrong in Deathly Hallows, he’s flung back to 1932 – before Tom Riddle’s metamorphosis into Lord Voldemort, before Grindlewald’s defeat, and before Dumbledore became Hogwart’s Greatest Headmaster.
1. Chapter 1

_Summary: _When Harry Potter's Horcrux-hunting mission goes horribly wrong in Deathly Hallows, he's flung back to 1932 – before Tom Riddle's metamorphosis into Lord Voldemort, before Grindlewald's defeat, and before Dumbledore became Hogwart's Greatest Headmaster. But why is he there? Who sent him? And what role will he play in the genesis of a conflict which would last over half a century?

Note: This is NOT a romance. At this point, no pairings are planned.

_Introduction_

Nothing existed save for sound and color.

Harry felt as though he was being pushed, pulled, turned inside and out, all at the same time – it was as though he was simultaneously Apparating and Portkeying across thousands of miles. He could feel his body, but not control it; it seemed, as he hurtled onward, that he was held together by sheer willpower instead of matter.

He could still feel the pain from the last curse Voldemort had inflicted on him

_blindingburstingpaininfiniteandforevermakeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstophowmuchlongerpleasemakeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstopMAKEITSTOP_

before the Dark Lord's crimson eyes had widened, shocked, as Harry felt his body grow wispier and wispier. Harry had been convinced that he was dead; unfortunately, he thought somewhat bitterly, this scenario was becoming increasingly less likely, unless the afterlife was some kind of never-ending whirlpool of sensation. Not the typical perception of heaven –but then, he reasoned, if there was one thing he had learned, it was that wizards loved to fool themselves. They also tended to do so in spectacular ways.

All thought ended when he suddenly, without warning or ceremony, was dropped out of the maelstrom. He had a brief moment to feel that his body had been

_Reassembled?_

before he collided with something hard. There was a _thud _– a yelp – and he fell once more, but into blackness and silence.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter One_

_Hogwarts_

_Headmaster's Office_

_August 1932_

Requisition forms for food – check. Updated Transfiguration textbooks – check. Request for Growth Charms for the grass on the Quidditch field – check…

Albus Dumbledore was hard pressed not to sigh at the stacks of papers littering his desk, overwhelming the efforts of his enchanted phoenix paperweight to keep them in some sort of order. The small statue, an old gift, hopped around the desk, flapping its wings forlornly at the disorderly piles of paper, in a vain effort at creating order from anarchy.

Come to think of it, that particular trait was very similar to a trait the gift-giver had possessed – Dumbledore quickly crushed the small bolt of pain which arose at that thought. He stared at the phoenix paperweight, still hopping over his desk, and reached out decisively, grabbing the statue and thrusting it into a conveniently half-open drawer. He gave the drawer a tap, watching with satisfaction as it shut with a small _snap._

Never mind that this particular ritual had been repeated every day for close to three months, now. He knew that the small statue would once again find its way onto his desk before the day was out.

A knock sounded on his office door – Dumbledore scowled slightly, as he remembered he had left the gargoyle guardian open in anticipation of the pre-school-year visitors who would invariably come by for conference. Dumbledore straightened in his chair, smoothing down his simple, dark blue robes. Making certain that his face was pleasant, he gestured his visitor to the chair opposite of his desk.

"Professor Slughorn, it is a pleasure as always." He smoothed his long auburn beard as Horace sat in the chair across from him, a small frown etched across his features.

What – ah. The placement of the chair across from his desk. From Slughorn's perspective, Dumbledore was greeting him, not as an equal, but as a subordinate, or as a student called in for a reprimand.

Of course, Slughorn _was _technically Dumbledore's subordinate. But given the Board of Governor's concerns, it was not altogether unlikely that _that _state of affairs would continue on indefinitely.

Slughorn was as aware, if not more so, of this than Dumbledore himself was. His frown quickly turned into a somewhat sardonic smile as he discreetly scanned the headmaster's office.

Of course, Dumbledore thought drily. Measuring the room for furnishings. No doubt deciding how to redecorate. His hand fisted in his beard. He quickly released it, dropping his hand to his lap as he leaned forward slightly, his glasses sliding slightly down his nose.

"Horace," he said, attempting to force slight pleasure into his voice. "What is it that I can do for you?"

Slughorn's smile faded slightly, likely at the usage of the first name, before he recalled himself and puffed up once again. "Ah, Albus – I did want to ask if you had considered my recommendation for that new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor – "

"Yes. Horatio Potter – I have his resume here." Dumbledore shifted the stacks of paper on his desk, desperately searching for the resume. It would not do to look disorganized – he made an effort to keep his expression calm as his fingers finally hit on the lamia-skin folder the resume had been submitted in. "Clearly a pureblood," Dumbledore commented, as he ran his hand over the smooth, scaly material. "I have not seen lamia-skin for close to fifty years."

Slughorn's expression grew, if possible, even smugger. "Why, yes," he agreed. "Mr. Potter is the second son in the Potter family – I believe you know his grandfather, Lord Albert Potter –"

"Yes," Dumbledore agreed, ensuring his expression remained benign and pleasant. "Lord Potter does serve on the Board of Governors."

"Yes, yes – Lord Potter approached me, you know – we were at the Association of Potions Masters – and mentioned that his son was looking for work – and, you know, I did happen to mention that we were _lacking ­–" _here he paused to smirk – "a Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor – but, really, Albus, it's a shame that Tom Riddle's only just graduated – he'd be a spectacular professor, would he not?"

"Indeed," Dumbledore agreed, his hand tightening on the lamia-skin folder. "But really, Horace, I don't think that Mr. Potter has quite the credentials that we are looking for on the staff here at Hogwarts."

Slughorn looked surprised and puzzled. "Well, really, Albus – whyever not? He does have an impressive academic record – comes from a family of impeccable reputation and social standing – really, Albus, even you should be able to appreciate that – "

Dumbledore felt his hand grip the folder even tighter and made a conscious effort to relax it. "You are quite correct, Horace, of course, but I would hardly agree that his family's reputation is unblemished."

Slughorn frowned, looking lost – then his expression cleared, and he waved his hand airily. "Ah, of course – you're referring to that unfortunate incident two or three years ago. Really, Albus, young Potter was never convicted, and I would think that you of all people" – he paused, throwing Dumbledore a significant look – "would be capable of appreciating the need for the concept of _the assumption of innocence."_

Dumbledore felt himself freeze for a moment, staring at Slughorn. The professor, taking that as his cue to leave, rose from his chair, leaning heavily on the arms, as he bent towards Albus. "Headmaster," he offered, with a slight bow, and tromped towards the door.

The door shut with a _clunk._ Dumbledore waited, until he was certain that Slughorn was gone, before he buried his face in his hands.

It never ended. It never ended. Without consciously thinking, he reached back down to the shut drawer and unlocked it, withdrawing the small phoenix statue. It began hopping once again over his desk, flapping again at the stacks of paper.

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, and surveyed the room – with its sleeping and thankfully silent portraits of bygone headmasters, the empty plinths, the unopened boxes, the sparkling crystal astrolabe which was all he had unpacked, and wondered if he had not indeed made a grave mistake in accepting the position of Headmaster of Hogwarts.

-----------

_You're coming around. About time._

Harry grumbled slightly, content to remain in the darkness and silence. The unwelcome intrusion of the voice miffed him. He attempted to lift his arm, to bat it away, before realizing that this was physically impossible. His arm – was it tied down?

"Boy, try not to move that arm."

Panic. He was back – he was back in the cold and the dark, propped up against the dank wall, breathing in the putrid smell of fresh meat and old blood, hearing the rats scrabble against the stone floor – he arched his back, trying desperately t o escape from the restraint –

"Don't fight – wait, wait – boy, calm down –"

Boy! He tried to grit his teeth, to fight harder, but realized to his horror that he could not possibly fight any harder than he already was – he felt as though he had gone a few rounds with a Muggle weedwhacker, and come out the worse for it –

Although, actually, the analogy was not entirely incorrect. Although the Wizarding Weedwhacker from Hell might be a better way of putting it.

Wait. Why was he no longer in pain?

"Boy, can you open your eyes?"

Open his eyes? Well, why not? If it was Voldemort, it wasn't like he'd ask politely. Or he might, just for fun, and then cast an Eyelid-Removing Dark Curse of Power ™ to stay in character.

Regretfully, he decided that it was probably a better idea to live with knowledge then remain blissfully ignorant. He opened his eyes.

A man's face stared down at him. It was a hard face. His eyes were a muddy brown, wrinkled at the corners from constant exposure to the sun – Harry guessed, eying the evil-looking mouth and sharp nose, that his (rescuer? captor?) was not accustomed to laughter or smiling. The face was framed by gray hair, tied back in a low horsetail, and drenched in sweat from the scalp down.

The man's eyes skimmed over Harry's face and upper body, stopping at his left eye, his nose, his shoulder, and his collarbone. Harry winced as each glance seemed to reawaken the pain in that area – the black eye, the twice-broken nose, and what he suspected was a dislocated shoulder and broken collarbone. And that, he thought, grimly attempting to move his legs, was only the upper body. In fact, the only part of him that did not hurt was his left wrist, which still wore the black armguard he had worn since before the Catastrophe and which Voldemort had never been able to remove.

Harry and the man stared at each other for what seemed to be an eternity, before the man broke the stare, snorting softly. "Someone did a number on you, boy", he muttered, putting a firm but gentle finger on Harry's black eye.

Harry coughed, testing his vocal chords. "Yes, sir," he replied, his voice coming out a low grumble. He frowned, the grumble confirming that his voicebox had probably been damaged, possibly permanently. He grimaced, and tried again. "Sir… who are you?" he ventured.

The man looked at him for a moment, and snorted again. "I'm a healer, boy, and today is your lucky day. I don't know how you ended up almost encased in solid rock, but if you hadn't deApparated a second before you did, you'd be in the wall."

Harry blinked. "What?"

The man sighed heavily. "You, boy, are in the Royal London Hospital, Magical Wing. You deApparated barely two feet from the barrier separating us from the Hospitals. Now, I assume that you were attempting to come here for treatment for your – not inconsiderable – injuries…"

Harry nodded, frowning. What had happened? How had he gone from Voldemort's camp to the Royal London Hospital? For that matter, why was he not in St. Mungo's? "Sir… why am I not in St. Mungo's?"

The healer's gaze hardened. "St. Mungo's? Where's that?"

"St. Mungo's Hospital… the magic hospital…"

The healer frowned, taking out his wand and moving it closer to Harry's eyes. He blinked as a small light shot out of the wand, directly into his pupils. "No sign of concussion, boy," the healer growled, putting the wand away. "This is the only magical hospital we've got here in Britain."

Harry blinked again. "What?"

The healer sighed. "Boy, this is 1932 and we're being hit by the depression just as hard as the Muggles are. St. Mungo's was proposed to the Ministry almost five years ago – you can see how important they think it is to give all the Wizarding accessible health care…"

Harry felt his mouth open slightly as he looked at the healer. The healer was looking back, with no trace of deception in his eyes or face. Could this be some sort of trick of Voldemort's? If so, though, what purpose could it possibly serve? Slowly, and wincing as the pain in his shoulder intensified, he turned his head to the right. He saw a bare cinderblock wall, covered in some sort of ingrained dirt and odd yellow-green stains. He turned his head to the left, and saw a small, wrought-iron bedside table where his wand rested, and a chipped plaster water pitcher. A wooden chair, one leg shorter than the other three, stood next to the door, which opened onto a hall paved with the same sort of cinderblock as the wall.

"Is this – some kind of prison?"

The healer seemed about to roll his eyes, but changed his mind mid-gesture. "No, boy, like I said, this is the London Royal Hospital. For Magical folk. Since you Apparated here, you are Magical. Since we don't know who you are, you're in one of the more secure wings. And as soon as you pay up, we'll fix you up."

Harry's eyes widened. "I- I don't understand," he said weakly.

The healer stood, this time completing the eye-roll gesture. "Fine. Think about it. I'll come back when I have the chance, which, considering my schedule, should be – never." He strode towards the door. "A nurse will come by in a bit. Tell her when you want to see me," he tossed out as he left the room and vanished out of sight.

Harry put his head back on the pillow, exhaling heavily. He looked down at his own body, and realized that the clothes he had been wearing – a Muggle jumper and jeans – had been removed. He was wearing some sort of white robe; his bloody leg had been tied neatly with a tourniquet of some sort. He moved it experimentally, wincing. For a hospital, they weren't big on painkillers. He reached absently for the water pitcher; it was only after five minutes of struggle that he was able to move it close enough to lift over to his bed, putting minimal strain on his injured shoulder.

So. He was, supposedly, in the London Royal Hospital, in 1932. He was badly injured, wearing a white robe which made him look like some sort of bloody invalid –

_although, to be fair, he was – _

and, more to the point, he had no idea if this was some trick of Voldemort's, a hallucination brought on by extreme pain, or if he had actually travelled through time. He briefly wished that Hermione was there – she'd no doubt have an answer, supported by no less than three primary sources, four secondary sources, and a give him good dose of her own opinion to go along with it. He closed his eyes briefly, as Hermione's and Ron's faces swam into view. He stayed like that, leaning back on the bed (which smelled, he realized vaguely, like a combination of cabbage and liver), and fingered the black wristguard, running his fingers over the metal grommets which held it together.

He heard a noise at the door; he started, his eyes opening convulsively as the pain in his leg aborted his attempt to leap to his feet. He gasped, eyes watering from the lightning bolt of pain ripping up and down the bone and through the muscle, as a figure dressed in what he vaguely recognized as an old-fashioned wizarding nurses' uniform approached. She stood silently, allowing him to recover, until her figures swam into focus.

She was identical to Pansy Parkinson – the pug face, the calculating expression, the short and crouching stature. Unlike Parkinson, however –

_who he had last seen screaming at the end of his wand – _

she was smiling, seemingly genuinely.

"So you're the mystery patient, then," she said brightly, stepping further into the room. "Everyone's talking about you, you know – they want to know what on earth possessed you to deApparate so close to the ward against the muggles!" She paused, seemingly waiting for a reply.

"Accident," Harry grumbled, the pain in his vocal chords returning full force. She looked at him with a stricken expression.

"Oh, no – we can't have that! You must be in terrible pain already!"

He said nothing, letting his expression speak for itself. She noticed, and flushed. "Of course – just – just give me your name, and payment information, and we can get your treatment started right away – "

He looked at her. "Don't have money," he grunted.

The nurse looked startled. "What? But – what's your name?"

Harry winced. "I'm – er – I'm Heimrich. Heimrich Evans."

The nurse looked at him, a tight expression in her eyes. "You're German, then?"

Oh, bloody _hell. _He thought fast. "No. No – I'm British. It's an old family name."

The nurse did not look satisfied. She said, rather coldly, "Well, Mr. Evans, I'm afraid that we can't treat you without some guarantee of payment. Considering the economic climate of the times –" She grimaced, and muttered, seemingly to herself – "Why the wizarding world is so dependent on the leeches I'll never know –" She snapped her attention back to Harry. "Mr. Evans, I'm afraid that you'll simply have to leave," she glared. "You've got your bandage, there's your wand."

Harry stared at her. "_What? _I'm bleeding – I'm clearly in pain – can't you do _anything?"_

The nurse stared back. "We already have. We gave you a bandage, didn't we now? Now, up you get. There's your wand – go on, we're discharging you. Nothing's life-threatening."

Still staring, Harry lurched to his feet, gritting his teeth as the pain in his leg burned harder. He limped to the door, sagging against the frame as he lost his energy. This was insane. Pomfrey would have had him in bed for no less than a month if she was here – _well, and alive - _

The nurse's shoes tapped behind him. He gritted his teeth again. "May I –" he asked, with exaggerated politeness – "at the very least, have a crutch to lean on?"

The shoes tapped again as she considered it. "Very well," she snapped. "But mind you leave quickly." He felt her shove, none to gently, by him as he stood leaning on the door frame. He watched her march purposefully down the hall, and bit back a combination of a sigh and a pained groan.

His magic was shot to hell – there was no way he'd be able to do anything with it for at least the next week. He could barely walk, and there was no way he could Apparate. The only clothes he had was the hospital robe on his back… the Muggle jumper and trousers had been far too bloody to even think of salvaging… and with his luck, the bleeding hospital would want it back and he'd be naked.

He was in _trouble._

_No, Potter. To borrow the Muggle vernacular, you're screwed._

Harry winced as he brought his hand to his forehead. Of course, if the voices were back, then at least he could count on having some company. He glared resentfully at the wristguard. Useless thing.

Of course, he had his usual amount of luck to depend on. In other words, none at all.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N – Not mine. Many thanks to everyone who reviewed or added me to their story alerts – that made my day. I do know that I am playing fast and loose with the timeline – there is a reason, which will become clear as the story progresses. As for whether Tom Riddle makes an appearance… well, you'll just have to see, won't you? He might not necessarily be in the form you expect._

_Chapter Two_

Half an hour later, Harry was sitting on a bench outside of the hospital, staring miserably at his aching leg and awkwardly attempting to adjust the old wooden crutch under his arm. The nurse had, as expected, confiscated the hospital robe; unexpectedly, she had handed him a shabby but serviceable jumper and trousers to replace it. Harry had muttered a thank-you, grabbed them, and hobbled out of the room as quickly as he could – only to sheepishly return once he realized that, as he couldn't apparate, the staff would have the show him the way out.

He had no money – no food – and the name he had picked at random was German. _So much for the wizarding world having nothing to do with muggle politics, _the voice muttered. He looked around again, gazing at London of the 1930s.

The economic problems the nurse had referred to were obvious. The entire street seemed rather shabby, and the people walking by seemed dispirited. Their clothes were clearly old, if clean and neat; he noticed that one woman's skirt had been carefully hemmed up from where it originally hung mid-calf to hide the fraying seams. He had initially frowned at the shabby set of clothes he had been given – now, he realized that he fit right in. Absently, he touched his wristguard, running his fingers again over the grommets.

There were a few old-fashioned automobiles (_well, in-fashion now, _he was reminded) parked parallel to the sidewalk. Harry noticed that the people walking by gave them angry glances; one man spat on the car trunk. That man, Harry noticed, was wearing a small pin on his coat lapel – a red flag with a hammer and sickle.

"Still here, boy?"

Harry started, and twisted slightly on the bench. He stared at the healer he had spoken with in the hospital. He had changed, Harry noticed absently, from his healer's robes and into a Muggle suit.

"Not like I've got anywhere else to go, do I?" He asked with a shrug.

The healer looked at him thoughtfully. "True enough, boy. Especially not with a name like Heimrich Evans." He nodded at Harry. "The Great War's over. But," he scanned the street, "We still feel it. Every day. Of course, Germany feels it, too. Probably worse."

Harry fought back a grimace as he thought of the Second World War. "Yes, sir. I imagine they do," he agreed, as neutrally as possible.

The healer looked at him again for a moment, and stuck out his hand. "I'm Prince. Abner Prince."

Harry eyed it for a moment, then reached out his own hand, wincing as his collarbone twinged in protest. "Heimrich Evans. But," he continued grimly, "You knew that already."

Prince smiled briefly. "I have a soft spot in my heart for lost German boys," he said. "You have no place to go? I'm heading home, now. You can stay the night. Have some food. Maybe," he eyed Harry's injuries pointedly, "I can even fix you up."

Harry blinked. He had no place to go – and Prince's home was probably better than sleeping on the street.

"Fine," he said, hefting his crutch. "Let's go." He stood shakily, carefully supporting himself on the crutch. They set off, Prince walking at a pace slow enough that Harry could keep up but briskly enough that he was soon out of breath.

Wait. Prince. Wasn't that – Harry blinked at the healer's back. Was he walking behind _Snape's _grandfather? He briefly entertained the idea of casting a well-placed Castration Hex on the man.

Before that pleasant fantasy could go any further, Prince stopped. "We're here," he said gruffly. He gestured at a door set back into a brick wall.

Harry raised his eyebrow, and looked up and down the street. It appeared they were standing in front of a derelict warehouse. "Bit musty, isn't it then?" He asked drily.

Prince grunted. "Damn muggles," he muttered, taking his wand from his pocket and tapping the lock. "Always ruin the real estate." He walked in, gesturing for Harry to follow behind him. "Shut the door, boy."

Harry obeyed, awkwardly balancing on his uninjured leg as he maneuvered about to shut the door. He finally succeeded, grinning triumphantly, when he heard a cough behind him. Prince was staring at him with mild surprise.

"Very flexible," he commented. "I'd forgotten about the injury. You kept up damn well. You play Quidditch? You've gotten the reflexes for it, I think."

"Uh – yeah. I play seeker," Harry replied. Of course, running from Voldemort and dodging curses had also done a lot for them. _Yes, Potter. Pity you couldn't duck that last one, isn't it? Damn mudbloods indeed. I'd forgotten what 1930s London looked like…_ Harry frowned, and smacked his wristguard against the doorsill. Prince noticed, and frowned – Harry quickly pretended to wince and massaged his shoulder.

"Yes," Prince said after a pause. "I thought so. Well, come in. Sit down. I'll look at the leg." Prince waved his hand towards the door to what Harry assumed was the sitting room. He swung through, and sat down on the couch. His eyes closed – the couch was soft and the room was dark, and he felt fairly confident that he would not have to jump up again in the next ten minutes to fight off a Death Eater attack.

"None of that, boy." Prince walked into the room. "I need you awake to take this." He waved a steaming mug at Harry. Harry looked at it, and grimaced. He wondered if Snape's talent at creating truly foul potions was an inherited ability. He reluctantly took the potion, closed his eyes again, and sipped resolutely.

To his surprise, the potion tasted faintly of cherries; he made a pleased sound. Prince chuckled. "Amazing how much better it tastes, isn't it?" He commented lightly. "I'm going to start looking at your injuries. This might hurt, even with the pain reliever."

That, Harry thought, keeping his eyes closed, was probably an understatement.

------------

Dumbledore was almost relieved when the floo chimed. He smiled politely at Romilda Puddifoot, the proprieter of Madam Puddifoot's in Hogsmeade, who had been chattering about her new business venture for the past hour and a half in his office.

"Madame Puddifoot, I am sorry – but I've been expecting this call – it's very important – "

"Of course!", the pudgy witch giggled. "An important man like you, of course you've got _all _sorts of petitioners lined up at your door – and in your fire – " she giggled again.

"Madame, thank you for your visit –" he stood, putting a hand courteously on the small of her back as he desperately tried to eject her from his office while maintaining his Headmaster persona. "I assure you, I will give your proposition every bit of consideration it deserves." He shut the door, politely but deliberately, in the middle of the woman's flirtatious wink. He sagged against it for a moment, exhausted. Was the woman completely shameless? Even had he been given to– er – appreciate – the – er - _company_ of women, Romilda Puddifoot was perhaps the last he would choose to dally with…

Not, he had to admit, that the business she was running was itself a bad idea. He had no doubt that if he did grant Hogwarts students the chance to visit Hogsmeade, she would amass a considerable fortune – even in the current times. Of course, she had added that those visits would require – she had winked – quite a bit of _planning time _with the Headmaster…

The floo chimed again. Dumbledore's eyes flew open as he quickly straightened his robes – today a drab, utilitarian olive – and hurried over to the fireplace. He took out his wand, and tapped the mantel, accepting the call, as he knelt down on the hearth rug.

"Abner!" He gave Prince his first real smile of the day. "What a pleasant surprise! If you have time, actually, I'd love to have a game of chess later this evening – "

"Yes, Dumbledore," Prince interrupted, scowling. "I know. And no, I don't have time. What I do have is a mystery."

Dumbledore swallowed, trying not to feel irrationally hurt. It always ended like this, it seemed, especially after Gellert –

No. He would not go there.

"A mystery?" He asked, trying to sound both jocular and interested. "Sounds fascinated. What kind of mystery?"

Prince paused for a moment. "You might want to see for yourself. He's knocked out right now, and the dose I gave him should keep him down for another three hours or so. "

Dumbledore frowned. "Kidnapping, Abner?" He teased. "How ignoble of you."

Prince silenced him with a glance. "Dumbledore. I'll expect you in the next fifteen minutes or so." His head vanished with a slight _pop._

Dumbledore leaned back on his haunches with a slight sigh. Well. Abner was still obviously upset, and showed no signs of forgiving him – but at least he'd come to _him _with the mystery.

Although, to be completely fair, anything that would convince Abner Prince to speak to him again must be of earth-shattering significance.

Ten minutes later, he was standing in front of Prince's flat, hidden in the heart of Muggle London. He shifted from foot to foot as he tapped at the door, glancing about anxiously; he had never been fully comfortable with Muggles, especially after what had happened… he cut that thought off with the ease of long practice and rapped his knuckles again against the door.

The door opened slowly, Prince peering suspiciously through the crack between door and wall. After a moment of silent survey, he opened the door the rest of the way and gestured Dumbledore inside. "He's in there," he muttered, jerking his thumb in the general direction of the sitting room.

Dumbledore frowned, curious. "Who is? Really, Abner, you were very mysterious over the floo-"

"With good reason," Prince commented darkly. "You'll see." He guided Dumbledore into the room and waved his wand, lighting it. He pointed at the couch.

Dumbledore looked, and frowned. The boy lying there certainly looked the worse for wear. "A former patient of yours, I assume?" he asked lightly.

"No," Prince said. "He arrived at the hospital looking like this. Couldn't pay, so we had to kick him out." He paused. Dumbledore frowned.

"You are generally not in the habit of bringing destitute patients home with you," he said quietly.

"No," Prince agreed. "And I won't apologize for it." He glared at Dumbledore for a moment. "But this boy… well, look." He walked over to the boy's sleeping form, and gently raised his wrist. Dumbledore's eyebrows rose as he stared at the wristguard.

"Interesting," he commented softly. "I can feel the soul magic from here."

"It wouldn't come off, Albus," Prince said sharply. "I must've tried for ten minutes. It's practically Magicked onto his arm. And then – look here." He held up a wand. "This is the boy's. I tested it – you know, to see if he'd registered it with the ministry – Albus, there's no record of this wand ever having been created."

Dumbledore frowned, momentarily distracted by Prince's use of his first name. This mystery, he mused, must really have him puzzled. "And what name did he give you?"

Prince smiled grimly. "That, Albus, is where it gets interesting. He told me his name was Heimrich Evans."

Dumbledore froze, staring at the boy. "So-" he breathed softly. "We have a boy mysteriously arriving in a hospital ward with no money, and a Magicked wristguard. He has a German first name. There is no record of his wand ever existing – I don't suppose you traced his Apparation trail?"

Prince shook his head. "Tried it. It's like he appeared from nowhere."

Dumbledore walked closer to the couch and looked at the boy more closely. He was perhaps sixteen or seventeen years old – black hair, unruly, cut short. He looked pinched, and thin, as if he had not had enough to eat in some time – and, Dumbledore added, seeing the scars littering his bare torso, probably been in a number of fights. There was nothing in his physical appearance to indicate he might be a danger. But – the name – the wand – the mysterious appearance –

"I am reluctant," Dumbledore said slowly, "To condemn the boy based on his name. One would assume that had –" he steeled himself to say the name – "Grindelwald – intended to introduce us to a spy he would have picked a much less suspicious way to go about it. At the very least, I would have expected a potential Hogwarts professor." He grimaced as he remembered the Potter problem.

He glanced at the boy again. "Have you treated Mr. Evans?"

Prince shook his head. "I told him I would, to get him in here."

Dumbledore nodded decisively. "Treat him – he'll be in pain. We have no proof that he's a spy, after all… I think the best way to answer our questions," he continued slowly, "Is to simply ask them to him."


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N – Many thanks to goldentree, who pointed out a typo I made in the first two chapters. Yes, it is Heinrich, not Heimrich. Harry, being Harry, seized on the first name he thought of that was similar to his own name. Just his luck that it was German._

_Not mine._

_Chapter Three_

_Wake up, Potter. You'll miss all of the fun._

Harry moaned, bringing his hand to his forehead. He smiled slightly, when he cautiously stretched his fingers and realized that the pain was gone.

"He's awake," Prince's voice intruded. Harry's smile widened as he carefully rotated his shoulder.

"Yes, boy." Prince's voice sounded patient. "You're mostly healed." Harry frowned, and opened his eyes. He was still lying on the sitting room couch, his injured leg propped up in front of him.

"Mostly healed?" He croaked, before wincing and putting a hand to his throat.

"Sorry, boy," Prince said indifferently. "Couldn't do anything for the leg or your throat. Looks like someone injected you with some sort of venom – I saved your arm, but you're going to be limping for the rest of your life. Doubt that the voice will ever heal, either." He cleared his throat. "Sorry about that," he added awkwardly.

Harry stared at him dumbly. Limp for the rest of his life? His voice – it would never recover?

_Really, Potter. I don't know what else you expected when you chose to fight the greatest wizard of all time, _the voice said smugly.

"Sir – how will that impact my magic?" He asked nervously.

"You mean pronunciation of spells, and all that?" Prince shrugged. "No idea."

Harry frowned, and glanced around the room. "Wait – where's my wand?" He stared at Prince, who stared back. "What did you do with it?" Prince did not reply. Harry surged to his feet, grimacing in pain as his leg nearly gave out under it. "Where _is _it?" He yelled.

"Please, Mr. Evans," a voice behind him said. "Be calm. Your wand is safe."

Harry froze. That voice – he turned around slowly, and almost swore.

Of course. It was 1932, which meant that Albus Dumbledore was at Hogwarts. And he was apparently highly thought of, enough that he would be called in on the strange case of the mystery boy.

Harry stared at Dumbledore, taking him in. His hair was still auburn – and where were the flamboyant robes and hat? This Dumbledore wore a drab olive robe. As he stared at Dumbledore's face, shrouded in shadow, it struck Harry that it seemed that Dumbledore was in mourning.

"We mean you no harm," the professor continued. "But we do have some questions for you."

This was bad. This was very bad. Harry had no doubt that Dumbledore, of all wizards, was the most qualified to help him figure out what had happened and how to get back to his own time – but Harry couldn't risk telling him. He could just imagine that conversation. "Oh, Professor, I need to get back to my own time – and, well, you see, I'd really appreciate it if you don't send me back to Hogwarts. Why? Oh, no, sir, I love Hogwarts, it's just that Voldemort has taken it over… who's Voldemort? Why, sir, don't you remember Tom Riddle? Yes, he killed my parents, a good fraction of the British wizarding population, and then had you murdered… oh, and he's split his soul into seven pieces. Great to see you alive again, though, sir!"

Somehow he didn't think that would go over particularly well.

He transferred his attention back to Professor Dumbledore and tried to figure out how to get out of _this _particular mess. If only Hermione was here –

_Why don't you just _ask _for her, then, Potter?_ The voice sneered –

If only Hermione was here, she'd be able to tell him what to say.

"Mr. Evans?" He realized he was still staring at the professor, who appeared somewhat uncomfortable.

"Oh – sir, I'm sorry," he replied awkwardly, struck that he could _tell _Dumbledore was awkward. Perhaps it was simply because he had been close to the murdered headmaster – but Prince was also eyeing Dumbledore askance.

How odd to meet a Dumbledore who was anything less than completely self-confident! Between the plain robes and the – _timidity? _The voice suggested – he scarcely knew him.

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Yes, Mr. Evans – that is your name, correct?" He asked, peering at Harry over his glasses.

Now _that _was a mannerism he recognized. "Yes, sir," Harry replied, keeping his gaze averted from Dumbledore's eyes. He stared as hard as he could at the familiar broken nose. "Heinrich Evans."

"A German name," Dumbledore murmured. Harry flushed. "Yes, sir," he snapped, "But it's an old family name. What, is it a crime to be German now?"

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "No, not yet," he said mildly, "Although I daresay there are some who would attempt to make it so. You are quite correct, however. I should not judge you based on name alone." Dumbledore paused; Harry braced himself.

"Your wand is of superb craftsmanship," Dumbledore commented. Harry blinked, surprised. "Where did you get it?"

Harry swallowed. He had a feeling that there was a trap hidden somewhere in that question. "Uh – I inherited it," he fumbled. "It was – my great-uncle's. My mum – she didn't want to buy a new one, she just gave me his to use instead."

Dumbledore looked at him silently for a moment. "No doubt," he agreed pleasantly. "What was your – er –great-uncle's name?"

Harry flushed. "H-his name? Ah –" he thought quickly – "Ronald. Ronald Evans."

"Your last name is Evans," Dumbledore pointed out after another moment. "But you say great-uncle of yours was on your mother's side?"

Harry swallowed and ducked his head. "She wasn't married," he muttered, hoping that they would accept his avoidance as humiliation over his birth.

"I see." Harry looked up, fancying he heard a bit of sympathy in the professor's voice, and meeting his eyes in the process. He quickly focused on a rather large mole on the professor's upper lip. "Mr. Evans? Can you tell me about your arrival at the hospital?"

Harry stared at the mole, fascinated as it moved with the professor's speaking lips. "Uh – what, sir?"

Dumbledore's lips compressed for a moment before he repeated his question. "What can you tell me about arriving at the hospital?"

"I – I don't remember anything," Harry answered, staring as hard as he could at the mole. "All I remember – is – " he hesitated for effect – "Sir, I remember pain. A lot of it. I remember" – he swallowed – "screaming" – he paused again. "Sir," he said softly, trying to exaggerate the damage to his vocal chords, "Do I really have to talk about this?" He summoned up the expression used to convince Dudley during the Harry-Hunting sessions that Harry was in a great deal of pain, more than he actually was. It had usually worked, sometimes convincing him to abandon the game; judging from the way Dumbledore's lips twitched downwards, it was working on him, as well.

"Of course, Mr. Evans," Dumbledore said softly. "But what will you do now?"

Harry licked his lips. "I don't understand, sir."

Dumbledore smiled slightly. "Will you return home?"

Harry shut his eyes, cursing slightly. _Brilliant, Potter, _the voice mocked. He massaged the wristguard, trying desperately to shut the voice out.

"Mr. Evans?"

He opened his eyes. "Sir, I don't have a home any longer," he said matter-of-factly.

Dumbledore raised his eyebrow. "Your mother is dead?" he asked.

"No, sir." Harry paused, and took a breath. They could check death records… there couldn't be all that many female Evans who had died recently who could be his mother…

"I was disowned," he said quietly. "My mum – she hasn't dealt with magic all that well –" He noticed Dumbledore looking slightly surprised. "There was some magic in my family," he hastened to explain, "Like in my great-uncle, but most of us are just plain Muggles. My mum – she was kind of upset that I got it, and her sister got it, but she didn't." Harry was surprised his tongue did not curdle as he strategically referred to Aunt Petunia his "mother".

He had another bright idea. "My mum wouldn't even send me away to be educated, I never attended any sort of magical school," Harry continued. There. That should explain the lack of any official school records.

Dumbledore pursed his mouth and nodded slightly. "I see. Well, Mr. Evans," he began, as he emerged from the shadows, "I am very glad that Healer Prince was able to treat you. I will take my leave, now – " Harry let out a breath of relief, which caught in his throat as Dumbledore's tone abruptly sharpened – "As soon as you explain where that wristguard comes from. I can sense the stench of soul magic from here."

------------

Dumbledore stood quietly, watching the boy as his mouth hung open. He very much doubted the boy's story about his name – although, somehow, Mr. Evan's claim that he had been disowned rang very true. He had thought earlier that the boy's physical appearance did not suggest malevolence; however, now that Mr. Evans stood facing him, staring stubbornly at his mole with those brilliant green eyes, did he reconsider.

Perhaps it was that he was certain Mr. Evans was lying to him. Perhaps it was the presence of that wristguard. But he was irresistibly reminded of young Tom Riddle, facing him on the eve of Hagrid's capture and subsequent expulsion – and the conclusion of the Chamber of Secrets fiasco.

"Well, Mr. Evans?" He prompted when it seemed the boy would not respond.

Evans looked down for a moment at the wristguard, then flinched and put his hand to his forehead. Dumbledore could make out the movement of his lips – shut up, fool? – before he yanked his hand down and placed it behind his back. Evans paused for a moment, glaring in Dumbledore's general direction, and defiantly removed it from behind his back. "This, professor?" He asked, his voice trembling in rage. For the first time, he looked directly into Dumbledore's eyes. They seemed maddened, almost as if two different personalities lived behind them – half burning rage and half cold hate. "This," the boy spat, "Is my darling mum's legacy to me. She gave it to me – told me to wear it – I _trusted _her! And now," his voice turned cold, "I can't get it off. I go around all day – every day – with this _brand_ on my arm!" He paused, glanced away, then refocused on Dumbledore. "Sir," he said, staring directly at him, "I don't practice soul magic. I don't know what this" – he shook his arm, with the wristguard, in Dumbledore's direction, "Is, but I want it _off."_ His voice trailed off, and he looked away, almost ashamed, from Dumbledore's startled gaze.

Dumbledore frowned. The boy had seemed sincere – perhaps too sincere. He had no doubt that the anger the boy had shown was real; the question was, Dumbledore mused, who was it directed at? He glanced at the wristguard again, and frowned. The thing stank of soul magic; and if, as Abner claimed, it had been Magicked on, then it could not possibly be _simply _a gift from Evans' mother. Particularly if she was a Muggle – such a thing would have destroyed her.

But what bothered him most… Evans had been most careful to avert his gaze from Dumbledore's eyes throughout the interview. It was almost as though he was afraid of Legilimancy. But for what purpose? Dumbledore wondered. Everyone knew that Legilimancy was a blunt tool, with no subtlety; it was used by the Ministry of Magic on condemned prisoners, to ascertain information on their crimes, or by mind healers on patients to far gone to be self-aware. It was a lifetime's imprisonment in the Wizarding Tower of London to attempt to use it on an unwilling subject. He flicked a glance over at Abner, standing unnoticed behind the boy, and nodded slightly. Abner's lips compressed, and he turned away angrily.

"Mr. Evans," Dumbledore said into the silence, "I believe you." The boy looked up from an intense study of his feet, almost incredulously. "Many of us have encountered misfortune from our family members –" he shoved away the memory of Arianna, screaming in pain – "and it would be unkind of me to doubt your word." He paused, waiting to see if the boy would pick up on that particular semantic subtlety; if he had, he gave no sign. Dumbledore went on, "I would like you to remain with Healer Prince for the next several days, just until we are certain that you are healed. It would not do, after all, to have you drop dead on the street!" His glasses slid down over his nose again; he restrained himself from pushing them back up. Their habit of sliding down his nose when he tried to make a point was getting irritating. It would not do, however, to show discomfort.

The boy watched him, frowning slightly. "All right…" he agreed hesitantly. He paused for a moment, and then inquired, "What about my wand, sir?"

Dumbledore concealed a start, then pulled the boy's forgotten wand out of his pocket. "Of course," he said agreeably. "You'll be wanting this back." He held out the wand to the boy, watching as Evans took it hesitantly. "By the way," he continued, struck by an impulse, "What is the core of your wand? It felt quite powerful." The boy paused at the question.

"My wand, sir? I-I'm not entirely sure, actually. Like I said, it was my great-uncle's." He carefully studied the wand's handle as he said this, studiously avoiding Dumbledore's gaze.

Dumbledore concealed a frown. "Of course. Well, then, Heinrich – I would suggest that you lie back down. That leg still looks very painful, after all," he added, eyeing the injury. In fact, it looked gruesome – he doubted the boy had taken the time to fully study it, or he would be in a great deal more pain than he currently was. "I will be on my way – Abner, if you could accompany me to the door – "

Prince jumped slightly where he stood, as the boy nodded in thanks and sank wearily back down to the couch. Prince walked quickly through the sitting room door, and stood waiting at the front door while Dumbledore slowly made his way through to him. He opened his mouth to speak, before Dumbledore shook his head and gestured outside to Muggle London. Prince nodded, then opened the door, waving Dumbledore through.

"Well, Dumbledore?" He snapped, scowling harshly at him. "What do you think?"

Dumbledore sighed. "He's lying about the soul magic, I think –"

"What?!" Prince exploded. "You left a Dark Wizard in my HOUSE?"

"No, no," Dumbledore said quickly, futilely patting the air in an attempt to calm the healer down. "No, Abner. I do think he told the truth when he said it had been forced on him. I just don't think it was his mother who did it." He paused. "He's lying," he said reflectively, "About his identity, about the wristguard, and about the core of his wand."

Prince's scowl grew deeper. "And you're leaving him with me?" He snarled.

Dumbledore smiled. "Abner, we both know you have enough wards up on this place to incapacitate any dark wizard. But he won't be in any shape to perform magic for the next several days at least – why do you think I gave him his wand back?"

Prince gave him a penetrating stare. "And what," he said slowly, "Will you do afterwards?"

Dumbledore sighed quietly. "I am afraid," he said softly, "That I don't know. " He looked at Prince. "We both know who the current expert on soul magic in Europe is."

Prince's face grew still. As one, they looked back at the house.

"Do you think – "Prince swallowed. "Do you think he's connected to Him?"

"To Him?" Dumbledore paused to consider. "Perhaps. Grin-Grindelwald was always ambitious… this is the sort of experiment he would try." He stopped, trying to ignore how familiar with Grindelwald he sounded. Prince, by the look of his face, had noticed as well.

" I think, however," Dumbledore continued, determinedly forging forward and ignoring the pain both Grindelwald's name and Prince's expression had brought up, "That it is more likely that Mr. Evans was attempting to escape from Him. Grindelwald was many things, but he was not careless… he would never have entrusted the soul magic to someone he did not trust absolutely. This boy looks as though he's been tortured. And the one thing I am absolutely certain he is not lying about is that he has been in a great deal of pain."

"Yes, quite often, by the looks of it," Prince agreed grimly. He frowned back at his house, chewing on his lip, then swung around to face Dumbledore. "Fine. He can stay – but only," he emphasized, raising his finger to make the point, "_only _for three days. After that, you figure something else out for him."

Dumbledore sighed. "Of course, Abner. You needn't worry about that."

Prince eyed him warily. "Well," he said quietly, "At least that's one thing." He swung back around and walked into the house, slamming the door and locking it before Dumbledore had the chance to respond.

Dumbledore stood on the sidewalk of Muggle London, out of place in his robes and pointed hat, and felt old and tired. Now that Abner was gone, he allowed his face to relax from his Headmaster Persona; he sighed, and drew his wand to Apparate. There was more paperwork to be done, and doubtless Horace Slughorn would be back to champion Potter as the new Defense professor. As he gave one last glance around the outside of Prince's home, he desperately wished he could just turn this over to the Ministry of Magic and be done with it.

But – he couldn't. If this was what he thought it was, there was no way the Ministry would let either Evans or Dumbledore himself survive.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N

Many thanks to everyone who reviewed – if I haven't answered you yet, be assured that I will. Also thanks to all who added me to their story alerts/favorite stories lists. There's really no better feeling than knowing that your story is appreciated.

Some people have asked why the timeline in this story is so different than in canon. I admit to moving Tom Riddle's date of birth up – also, Dumbledore doesn't officially become headmaster for thirty years or so. Believe me, the second discrepancy will be explained… actually, it's an important part of the story.

None of the characters belong to me.

----------

Harry closed his eyes after he was certain that Dumbledore and Prince had left the room. He wasn't sure that the professor had bought his story about the wristguard and use of soul magic –

_Really, Potter, I must say I'm almost impressed. That was quite a bit of fine acting there. Digging into your latent Slytherin side, are we? – _

But at least he had given Harry back his wand. Not that he was currently able to use it – his magic was so depleted he was doubtful he'd be able to perform anything other than Lumos.

_Potter, we need to talk._

There was, however, a more pressing problem. How had he arrived in 1932? Why was he here?

_Potter!_

For that matter, why was Dumbledore here at all? If he remembered his history correctly, Dumbledore was the Transfiguration professor at Hogwarts. Tom Riddle would return in another ten years and ask for the Defense position. Why would Prince notify Dumbledore about a suspect patient, rather than the Ministry? Or, for that matter, the hospital administration?

_Potter, stop ignoring me!_

Harry stalwartly ignored the voice as he stared at the shadowed ceiling and considered.

He had no idea how to get back to Hogwarts. The first thing he had to address, then, was to figure out _how _he had arrived at the hospital and then how to reverse it – although, come to think of it, wasn't it a _bit _odd that he'd landed right in the hospital? It was like the spell had deliberately sent him there.

_Potter, _the voice interrupted patiently, _if you'd talk to me, I might be willing to answer your questions._

Wearily, Harry glanced at the wristguard. The risks were considerable – but, if anyone would know anything, he was willing to bet that the wristguard did.

_I have a name, Potter._

Harry glanced quickly at the door. Prince hadn't yet returned – plus, he reasoned, it was perfectly understandable that someone injured as recently and as badly as he would take a nap. Reluctantly, Harry swung his feet back up to the couch, lying flat on his back and gazing at the ceiling. He winced as his leg twinged; he was almost reluctant to look at it, certain that anything which couldn't be healed would not be a pretty sight.

_Stop procrastinating, Potter._

Harry's lips firmed; quickly, resolutely, he swung the wrist up to his forehead and laid the wristguard flat against his scar.

There was a shot of blinding pain; a rush of green light; a sensation of falling; and Harry was no longer lying on the couch. He blinked, disoriented, and glanced around – it appeared that this meeting would take place in a small, dark room, dimly lit by flickering torches. Two chairs, so close they nearly touched, sat facing each other in the center of the room.

"It looks like a Mudblood interrogation room, doesn't it?", an amused voice said from behind him.

Harry flinched, then forced his expression flat. "As always," he drawled, turning around, "I am delighted to see you, Tom."

A sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle stood facing him, smirking happily. Harry eyed him with disfavor and suspicion; the last time they had communicated like this, he had been forced to engage in a frantic struggle for his body. He shuddered as he remembered the pain that particular encounter had caused.

"_Harry," _Riddle said, rolling the r's in his name. "Or should I say Heinrich? Really, boy" – he smirked again – "Whatever were you thinking, choosing that name?"

"Tom, considering that this is probably at least partly your fault", Harry said coldly, "I would think it _prudent" – _he paused over the word, savoring it, then heard his voice grow loud and sharp – "That you _stop _about my _name, _and instead tell me what the hell is going on!"

If anything, Riddle's smile widened. "Really, Harry… is losing your temper going to do any good at all? Hmm?" Without waiting for an answer, he swept to one of the chairs and sat in it, indolently reclining and gesturing at the other with his foot. "Come along, Harry. Have a seat. We'll discuss this in a – civilized – manner."

Scowling, Harry grabbed the other chair and dragged it as far to the other side, as far away as possible from Riddle. "You parasite," he spat. "_Talk."_

Riddle sighed wearily. "Harry, we've been over this. My illustrious other self was just as upset as you are about all this mess." He stopped, straightening, and peered at Harry through the gloom. "I will admit," he said thoughtfully, "That Granger's idea – Magicking the wristguard onto you – was one of her better ideas – for a Mudblood, at least." He stopped to smile at Harry's expression. "Well, at least, for me." He said happily. "Left you in a bit of a bind, didn't it?"

Harry very carefully did not answer, pushing the memory of Hermione's screaming face aside. "You wanted to talk, Riddle. Stop with the taunts and start talking. How did we get here?"

Riddle frowned. "I have no idea." He paused. "I suppose it could have something to do with the latest curse I – excuse me, the other me – cast on you – what color was it?"

Harry frowned, trying to remember. "I think it was red," he said hesitantly. "A dark red, I mean, not bright."

Riddle nodded thoughtfully, staring silently over Harry's head. After a moment, he shook his head. "I can't say, then. It must have been a curse I recently developed…" He frowned, and then looked directly at Harry. "You must find some way to get into the Hogwarts library, Potter," he said seriously. "There's nothing I can possibly do while we languish here in Snape's grandfather's home." He stopped for a moment, then chuckled. "It is rather ironic, though?" His eyes drilled directly into Harry's. "Even now, your allies are all somehow connected to me."

Harry glared at Riddle. "Tom, how do I know you didn't do this on purpose?" He demanded. "Why should I take you into Hogwarts? I know what you're capable of – what you did to the DADA professor position – how do I know you won't, I dunno," he groped for a word, "change time or something?"

Riddle's expression changed into one of contempt. "Idiot boy," he hissed angrily. "I couldn't possibly _do _anything without risking the universe completely unraveled – it would be difficult to take over Wizarding society _if it no longer existed!" _His face calmed. "I would recommend," he said softly, "That you take particular care to stay away from my present self. Dumbledore may not be _observant _enough to recognize the cover of my old diary around my wrist – but I assure you, the present me most certainly would." He stopped, and smirked. "He would ask you questions that you would not want to answer… and rather insistently, as well," he said silkily. "I think you had rather enough experience with that in our own time, don't you?" He stood. "Get into the Hogwarts library, Potter. We might – _might – _have a chance of returning home then." He paused. "No, get back to your physical body before Prince starts thinking something is seriously wrong." Harry jerked, distantly feeling pain in his body. He looked at Riddle, and narrowed his eyes.

"Just remember, Riddle," he said, "If I don't get back – then neither do you." With an effort, he closed his eyes. He hoped that he awakened in a better manner than he did last time. He concentrated on his body, on the pain he could feel…

And opened his eyes. He could feel Prince's hands on either side of his face, gripping tightly. Harry groaned softly, quickly moving his arm away from his face. "Healer Prince?" he asked softly. "What – why did you wake me up?" He did his best to make his tone confused. "Where – where's Professor Dumbledore?"

Prince's face twisted briefly. "Just left," he said. He paused, then went on – "Evans, Dumbledore never introduced himself to you. You just knew him, didn't you? Have you ever met?"

Harry felt like slapping himself. "No, sir," He said quickly. "I just – I mean, everyone knows him, don't they?"

Prince grunted noncommittally, then gazed at him for a moment. "Go back to sleep, Evans," he said. "I daresay you need it." He looked briefly in the direction of Harry's leg. "I might be able to do something more with that. It'll take at least another two days, though – the potion is a bit complex. I need you to stay here, on the couch, you understand? No magic, either."

Harry smiled briefly, wondering if Prince was using the potion as a convenient excuse to keep him in one place and from wondering around the house. Considering who his grandson was, he figured it was a safe bet. "Yes, sir," he acknowledged. He paused, then decided, rather wickedly, to ask – "Do you want my wand, sir?"

Prince's gaze hardened. "No need, boy," he said after a moment. "I doubt you can do anything with it, anyway, can you now? Just – just lie still. Don't move. Loo's over there," he gestured vaguely over his shoulder, "in case you need it. Aside from that, I expect you to _stay here. _Do you understand me, boy?"

Ah. So his little performance hadn't convinced them, after all. "Perfectly, sir," Harry said with every bit of innocence he could muster. "I'll do exactly as you say."

Prince looked at him for a moment. "Good." He said. "Good." There was a pause, until he added, somewhat reluctantly, "I'll go get you something to eat, shall I?" He shuffled off.

Harry sighed, and closed his eyes again. The feeling he had seen after seeing Dumbledore, which he had quickly suppressed, returned. He had _missed _the old man. The image of the headmaster's broken body, lying on the ground in a pathetic mound, had been emblazoned in his nightmares for the past several months –

He opened his eyes, and stared unseeing at the ceiling. To see Dumbledore again, and so different from how he remembered – where were the bright colors? The twinkle in his eyes? He had seen Dumbledore cold before, angry, but never at Harry himself; being on the other side of the old man (well, Harry reminded himself, not so old in 1932) was unnerving. The difference… it was as though he didn't know his old headmaster at all.

Harry gritted his teeth, and pushed those thoughts out of his head – they went to the back of his mind, along with Hermione's face, Dumbledore's body, Snape's sneering gaze, Riddle's diary, his last glimpse of Ginny, the locket… briefly he wondered how Hermione was, how their quest was, before refocusing on the present. How on earth, he wondered, was he going to gain access to Hogwart's library? Entering as a student was out – he doubted Dumbledore would be willing to accept him, with no educational background and no good explanation for it. Sneaking in was out – the wards would probably notify the headmaster that an unauthorized person was present in the castle. Plus, how could he get into Hogwarts in the first place? He briefly remembered Sirius, then dismissed the thought. He wasn't an animagus – and the Shrieking Shack hadn't yet been built. He had no idea how the Castle had changed, what additions had been made, when the Marauders first made their map.

Well, that left one option. Somehow, he would have to get a job. But, again, how? He had no references, no resume, and he didn't even know if there were any vacancies… bitterly, he remembered Mad-Eye Moody's impersonator, Barty Crouch. It didn't seem fair that he could get in while he, Harry, couldn't…

Harry's eyes widened, then narrowed. _Wait _a moment. _Moody._

------------

Dumbledore sat in his office after returning from Abner's home, staring absently out the window while stroking the phoenix paperweight. He desperately wished he had a real, _live, _phoenix – he could use the comfort phoenix song brought. Healing tears, he thought, his hand drifting down to his left knee where his robes hid an alarmingly large scare, would also be nice.

Of course, phoenixes reputedly only bonded with wizards or witches of great power and great wisdom. That left him right out.

Sighing, Dumbledore returned to the chair behind his desk and sat down heavily, reaching once again for Potter's application for the Defense professor's position. Slughorn was right, of course – Potter was more than academically qualified to take the position. But after the matter with the Muggleborn girl, he couldn't imagine letting Potter anywhere near his students. He shuddered as he remembered Liliane Braddock's face, tearstreaked and ashamed, and her voice as she begged with him to keep her away from Potter. Sometimes he wished he had a way of emptying his head of thoughts.

His hands smoothed over the lamia-skin folder, as his thoughts turned to Evans' wristguard. The leather had seemed familiar – not leather, perhaps, but very similar to the lamia-skin he had before him. But that was impossible – lamia-skin was very valuable, and closely guarded by the pureblood families who stored it. Only three families reputedly possessed lamia-skin, Dumbledore knew, and two of them were close to dying out.

Of course, he thought grimly as his eyes went back to Potter's resume, the other family was the Potters.

So, then, what did it mean, to have a boy appear mysteriously in a hospital, with equally mysterious injuries, lie about his family, all while wearing a wristguard possibly made of lamia-skin which reeked of soul magic? Was it possible that the boy was truly a victim – but of his own family? Dumbledore stroked his beard, thinking carefully. Rumors circulated about Albert Potter's multiple _indiscretions _over the years – was it possible that Evans was the result of one of them? Evans did look familiar, but not like a Potter; Albert Potter was tall and blonde, with chocolate brown eyes. Both of his sons closely resembled him.

Perhaps young Evans resembled his mother, then. Dumbledore frowned, then made a note to research witches who had been associated with Lord Potter over the years.

He sighed. Speculation over Evans' identity notwithstanding, he still had to decide what to do with the boy. It would not be prudent to admit him to Hogwarts as a student, but it would not be wise or kind to leave him alone (_unsupervised) _in the Muggle world.

Dumbledore's phoenix paperweight, which he was still holding, chirped suddenly. Dumbledore looked at it, startled, before realizing it was glowing a hot red.

_Merlin. _Was he late for the staff meeting? He quickly glanced around his office, before realizing he had not yet unpacked a clock. He grabbed frantically at his robes for his pocket watch, before realizing he was not wearing it –

A voice cleared behind him. Dumbledore froze in the middle of grabbing his robes, then swung around quickly to face a startled Horace Slughorn. "Albus," he said slowly, eyeing Dumbledore closely, "Are you quite alright?"

Dumbledore straightened quickly, dropping his hand to his side and knocking the paperweight off his desk and out of sight, wincing slightly as it squeaked as it hit the floor. "Yes, yes, Horace," he said, trying not to sound embarrassed. "Of course. I was – just getting ready to come down to the staff meeting – "

Slughorn cleared his throat. "Yes, Albus. The staff meeting – it ended ten minutes ago. I took charge, since it seemed you weren't intending on coming – "

Dumbledore flushed. "Ah. Yes," he said awkwardly. "Thank you, Horace, for that – I got rather caught up – "

Slughorn looked at him, an eyebrow raised, then smiled sardonically. "Of course, Albus. I trust we will see you next week, then? Same time?" Dumbledore nodded meekly. Slughorn spun on his heel and walked out the door, stopping before he walked down the stairs. "Albus," he said, still facing away from him, "Since you weren't present, I took the liberty of telling Horatio Potter and Albert Potter that you had agreed to permit Mr. Potter to teach as Defense professor this term." Leaving Dumbledore gaping in dismay, Slughorn strode out the door.

Dumbledore sank into his chair. Evans – soul magic – Potter teaching – _Liliane – _

Now what was he going to do?


	6. Chapter 6

A/N

Thanks to everyone who reviewed/added this story to their story alerts/reviewed. I appreciate it more than I can say – and I hope that I will be able to update more frequently, now that I'm back in a place where I can do so. Also, not mine.

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Two days later, Harry sat stiffly on Prince's couch, struggling not to move his leg. Despite Prince's gruff ministrations, it appeared that nothing could be done for it. His voice, while slowly improving, would also likely retain permanent damage.

It had taken Harry nearly half a day to convince Prince to let him move off his couch. The man had been determined to keep him there – more, he suspected, out of suspicion than genuine concern for Harry – and had only grudgingly permitted Harry to move after he had tired of Harry's constant, _polite, _requests. Harry had used his newfound mobility to scour the house for old history books, newspapers, anything that might shed some light on _when _he was…

… Also, as long as Prince was satisfied that he was reading, he would be less likely to suspect Harry of his true goal in searching the house. He had to get into Hogwarts somehow, after all.

He had struck gold on the first goal when he found a small cupboard at the back of the house. For whatever reason, Prince had stuffed away almost three years worth of _Daily Prophet _back issues – Harry had muttered uncomplimentary comparisons to Prince's descendant under his breath as he dragged them out –

_Just like you, Potter, to complain about something that's aiding you – _

After sorting through almost two years' worth of newspaper, he stopped, raising his eyebrows at the headlines he encountered.

_HOGWARTS HEADMASTER INJURED UNDER SUSPICIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES, _one screamed. The next, dated a few days later, stated that _DIPPET REMAINS IN CRITCAL CONDITION IN MINISTRY HOSPITAL. _Harry paused at a picture emblazoned on a article dated three weeks later _HOGWART'S DUMBLEDORE TO BECOME NEW HEADMASTER_. Dumbledore, looking supremely uncomfortable, wearing plain black robes, stood at a dais. He was flanked by an unhappy –looking, as well as much _younger_-looking Slughorn and a stern man Harry didn't recognize. Harry glanced down at the picture caption, and started. The reporter identified the stern man as Lord Albert Potter, member of the Wizengamot and Hogwarts Board of Governors. Strange, Harry thought, scrutinizing the picture carefully. There really wasn't much of a family resemblance –

_Stop dithering, Potter, and figure out how to get us into Hogwarts, _the voice whispered harshly.

Harry sighed, and leaned back on the cushions. His original idea had been inspired by Mad-Eye Moody – or, rather, Barty Crouch. There was no earthly way Dumbledore would let a suspicious character like Heinrich Evans into Hogwarts, he had reasoned. He suppressed the pang that accompanied that thought; he'd loved the old man in his own time, and Dumbledore's death had hit him hard. Seeing him here – seeing him alive – was both brilliant and painful… but knowing that Dumbledore did not trust him, Harry, was hard to bear. He found himself wondering what Dumbledore would do if he knew the full story… if he'd help…

Dumbledore was a brilliant man, after all, if anyone could return Harry to his own time it would be the greatest headmaster in Hogwarts history.

_Potter, shut up and get to work. You know as well as I that we don't want to have that conversation at this point, now do we? How do you think Dumbledore would react to being told that he was dead, you were on the run, and I was systematically slaughtering Mudbloods? He'd lock you up for certain._

Harry pushed the voice out of his mind, yet again, and went back to thinking on how he could infiltrate Hogwarts unnoticed and get into the library. And then ignore the fact that he was depending on a soul fragment of a sociopathic dark lord to get him back to his own time.

If he couldn't go to Hogwarts as Heinrich Evans – he'd have to go to Hogwarts as someone else. That meant either a Polyjuice Potion or a strong glamour charm. The problem, of course, was, first, determining who he would impersonate – second, obtaining the Polyjuice Potion to transform – and, third – he winced slightly – making certain that the person he impersonated wasn't available to trip the whole thing up. On the whole, he'd prefer to avoid this plan.

He might be host to a soul fragment of the Dark Lord, after all, but that didn't mean he had to _act _like it.

"Bloody hell," Harry muttered under his breath in frustration, finally straightening back up and wincing as his leg ached painfully. He supposed that it would be possible to just use a glamour charm, but, really, he didn't trust his glamours against Dumbledore's magic. And as McGonagall had once pointed out, the teachers were fairly good at magic himself.

"Bored, boy?" Harry started, nearly jumping out of the couch, as he heard Prince move behind him. He was certainly quiet – either that, or Harry's war-trained senses were beginning to fail.

_Getting slow, Potter. By all means, continue, but preferably when we're back in our own time._

"Yes, a bit," he responded quickly, shutting the voice out of his head yet again and trying to look innocent. He thought he succeeded rather well, as Prince moved around the couch to face him; he might have been successful. Prince looked irritated, but no more so than usual.

"Digging through my things, Evans?" Prince asked harshly, jerking his head at the old newspapers Harry held. Harry held back a grimace – perhaps not.

"Well, it's not like you gave me much to do, in any case," he retorted sharply. "Honestly," he continued angrily, going on the offensive, "Do you have anything in here that's recent?"

Prince's lips pinched together. "Daily Prophet's a load of rubbish, boy, and you'd know it if you had any sense," he muttered. Harry held back a splutter of pained agreement. "You want to read something," Prince took out his wand and waved it wearily at a black cupboard across the room which had, despite Harry's best efforts, remained stubbornly closed, "read those. You won't get in much trouble with that, at least," he added, with a twist of his lip. They glared at each other for a moment, before Prince huffed and stalked away.

Harry slowly got up from the couch, wincing again as his leg protested, and hobbled over to the cupboard. He leaned on it, regaining his breath, as he fought to focus his eyes on the titles of the books; for some reason it seemed darker over here than in the rest of the room. Once he had succeeded, he gasped – and heard Riddle's voice gasp in as well.

The cupboard was lined with books on the Dark Arts. He doubted anyone who had not studied the subject would recognize the titles; these were old, old books, some thought lost long ago. He carefully lifted his finger and ran them along the cupboard, hovering an inch or two above the spines, careful not to touch – yes, there was Cygnus Black's _A History of the Dark Magicks; _there was Simone Beaufont's _A Compendium of Theoretical Dark Curses_; William Filch's _Theories of Magic; _ Aloysius Thomas' _Defense Against Charms and Curses_. And – last – his hand hovered in front of the title, he was scarcely able to believe it –

Salazar Slytherin. _Manifesto on the Theory and Creation of Magick. _The book, it was rumored, that Lord Voldemort had taken inspiration from – the book he, Ron, and Hermione had desperately tried to find but been unable to – the book that Neville Longbottom had died for, as he tried to sneak the only remaining copy out of Lord Voldemort's personal library –

_Potter!_

Harry leaned back, frowning. What were the odds that this book had turned up in the home of a healer, who lived in a bad part of London?

_Potter, this must be a trap of some kind. _Tom's voice echoed urgently in his head. _The healer –there's no way he could have something like this – not this sort of treasure!_

Harry frowned, thinking on Riddle's comment. He certainly saw the logic – on the other hand, Riddle was also not obliged to tell him the truth. It was also possible that Riddle simply did not want him, Harry, to read a copy of the Death Eater's Bible.

Harry stared at the book for a moment longer, undecided. This was too good an opportunity to pass up… what if the spells to create the Horcruxes were in this book? What if there was a way to unmake them, without use of Fiendfyre or Gryffindor's sword, or the like? Riddle's voice grew louder, as it echoed through his skull –

_POTTERYOU'REMAKINGAMISTAKEDON'TBEAFOOL-_

Harry clapped his hand to his scar, felt the wrist with the lamia-skin wristguard tingle, then burn, as he resolutely reached into the cupboard and carefully pulled out the book.

The lamia-skin wristguard was burning painfully, almost unbearably, as he gazed at the cover of the book. It was bound with a very, very old leather; despite its apparent age, the binding had not cracked, nor had the pages turned yellow. In fact, Harry thought, as he turned it over in his hands, it was almost as though it had been published merely days ago. It could have been straight off the printing press. He made his way back to the couch, sitting carefully, mindless of the pain in his leg; it was almost a counterpoint to the burning pain in his arm. Riddle's voice still blathered in his skull; distractedly, Harry wondered why he was still attempting to persuade Harry to stop reading the book, when it was perfectly obvious that it was only encouraging him to do so…

Of course, Harry realized, too late, as he opened the book and felt something _pull _him towards the pages, that might have been what Tom had intended for him all along.

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Albus was grateful for the distraction, when Abner's – _Prince's, _he hastily corrected himself – Floo call came.

He threw the forms aside, mindless as they landed on the phoenix paperweight – ignoring it as it protested with a squawk. "Abner – Prince – what is it?" He asked.

Prince raised his eyebrows, a strange look with the soot falling around his head. "Dumbledore – have I come at a bad time?" He inquired slowly, tilting his head to see behind Dumbledore and into his office.

"No, no," Dumbledore quickly said. "I'm just – relieved – to have an excuse to put aside the paperwork…" he waved a hand at his desk to illustrate. "I don't know how Dippet ever managed…" he realized what he had said, and darted a sidelong glance at Prince.

Prince's face had drawn back into a scowl. "Quite," he bit out. "Of course, Dippet was a natural at paperwork – not quite as good at _battle tactics, _but then, I suppose we all have our talents, don't we, Albus?"

Dumbledore did not quite manage to suppress a wince of pain. "Abner –"

Prince snorted. "Don't even start, Dumbledore. _Headmaster. _At the moment, I have need –" his eyes flashed – "Of your expertise."

Dumbledore turned his back, in a desperate bid to regain his composure, under the guise of straightening the papers on his desk. "Oh?" He asked, keeping his voice steady with an effort. "Of course, Ab – Healer Prince, but may I ask what my expertise is needed for?"

Abner paused for a moment; Dumbledore resolutely kept his back turned. "It's the Evans boy," Prince said after a moment. "Have you decided what to do with him?"

Dumbledore frowned, his back still to Prince. "Not… as of yet," he said. "We can't turn him over to the Ministry – on that we're already agreed – nor can we let him roam free – "

"We can't trust him, free," Prince agreed flatly. "I conducted… a little test, today, Albus, and I was a little disturbed at what I found."

Intrigued, Dumbledore turned around. "May I ask what sort of test?" He asked softly.

Prince looked troubled. "I opened the cabinet," he said after a moment. "Albus, he recognized the books."

Dumbledore stood still for a moment, thinking. The cabinet was enchanted – it only opened in the presence of Dark Magic. Dumbledore himself had never dared attempt to open it – he could admit, only to himself, that he was afraid of what it would reveal.

"But," Prince continued after a moment, "Dumbledore, something strange happened. The books – the only books the cabinet showed were books on Dark Magickal Theory."

Dumbledore paused for a moment, shocked. "_Theory?" _He asked, disbelievingly.

Prince nodded in agreement. "Theory," he reaffirmed. "And one book on defense."

Dumbledore frowned, thinking. "Interesting," he said slowly. "As it happens, I might have an idea Mr. Evan's suitable employment." He thought for a moment longer, then nodded decisively. "Yes. That would work quite well." Energized, he looked again at Prince. "Where is Mr. Evans now?"

Prince gave a wry smile. "Attempting to read Slytherin's manifesto." He grinned. "You might want to come through and help him, Dumbledore, else he won't have much of a mind left, will he now?"

Dumbledore stared at Prince for a moment, shocked. "_What? _Why did you – Abner, that was – " Dumbledore paused, and took a breath. "Get out of the way, Prince, I'm coming through." Prince's face vanished from the flames as Dumbledore stepped through, emerging on Prince's fireside rug. Prince emerged from the crouch he was in, looking grim.

"Where is he?" Dumbledore demanded, looking at Prince with narrowed eyes. Prince gestured behind him; Dumbledore roughly pushed him out of the way as he saw Evans' body, shaking on the couch. The book had fallen from his hands to the floor; Evans' brilliant emerald eyes were wide, staring unseeingly at the cupboard across the room. His hand below the wristguard was twitching spasmodically, opening and closing – Dumbledore fancied he could smell burning flesh as he rushed across the carpet to where the boy sat. "Abner – you knew about the curse – why did you do this?" he asked as he knelt down in front of the boy.

"It's been under twenty minutes, Albus," Prince said quietly behind him. "His mind should be unharmed if you pull him out now. And, as for why –" Prince paused, then continued – "I swear to you, I did not know the curse would affect him this badly. You know it's cursed, but you don't know how… and neither do I." Prince gestured slightly at the boy's staring eyes. "Better start Legilimancy, Albus. Save him. And while you do," Prince's face tightened – "Check and see just what he means to do to us all, as well."

Gaping, Dumbledore met Prince's eyes. He opened his mouth, to attempt to refute what Prince had said – to point out that Legilimancy was dangerous, was only used on criminals, was a blunt weapon, could result in catatonia – then closed it. He might – _might – _be able to use Legilimancy to break the curses' hold on the boy's mind. It would help if he knew what the curse was – but as Prince had pointed out, no-one knew quite how the book was cursed, just that it was.

But, he knew Prince. Prince was capable of making atrocious decisions in the name of the greater good – he was quite capable of sacrificing the mind of someone he suspected was guilty in order to ensure the safety of all. He was quite capable of opening the cupboard, knowing that the book was there, suspecting the boy might be drawn to it, knowing the curse might affect him -

Merlin forgive me, Dumbledore thought wretchedly. I don't know if that's vice or virtue. Ever since Gellert –

"Tick-tock, Albus," Prince said quietly behind him. Dumbledore closed his eyes, and brought his hands up to the boy's temples.

He would try

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A/N Dumbledore can use legilimancy because, at this point, Mr. "Evans" is too far-gone to be self-aware. Legally, this is a gray area – usually the only people permitted to do so are certified Healers. Just a bit of clarification. He's reluctant to do so…there are hints on why in this chapter, and I'll address it more as the story continues.

We begin to hint at Dumbledore's early accession to the Headmaster's position… the question you should all be asking is, why? Also, will it last?

Next chapter – Harry at Hogwarts. Also, Harry's job at Hogwarts is revealed.

Reviews are welcome. They make me happy.


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